


Cappuccino Thursday

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: porthos and treville vignettes in a universe [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 06:19:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10508025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Treville runs into someone he knew a long time ago.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



Every Thursday Treville starts the day late. He spends his extra time at a cafe near his house with a soy milk cappuccino and a newspaper and tablet, going through the news carefully, making sure he knows what’s going on in the world around him. Sometimes he’ll be fed up with the state of the world, though, and in those cases he’ll bring a book instead. This Thursday is one of those days. He’s got a Jasper Fford novel he picked up at work from the ‘we recommend this!’ that the library has put up as a shelf in the lobby. He has been ploughing his bewildered way through a strange novel about alternate timelines. He’s not sure he likes the unhealthy relationship at the heart of the novel. The guy seems like a prat and the woman does not. He’s wondering if he should be worried about her and looks up to have a break from the bullshit, and looks right into familiar, familiar eyes. He blinks, and takes in the person staring at him, and blinks again, and blinks again, and the person jerks toward the door and then back to the counter as ‘Porthos!’ is called, and then he spills whatever he just ordered in a takeout cup all over his hand and drops the whole thing on the floor. Treville puts a receipt in to mark the page and goes over. 

“Porthos?” Treville questions, kneeling beside the man now on the floor trying to clear up. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. 

“I do remember you, don’t I?” Treville asks. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, his hand shaking as he straightens to set the empty cup on the counter. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” The barrister says, bad tempered. 

“Sorry,” Porthos says, again. 

“Let me replace that, and drink it with me?” Treville offers, straightening up too. 

“Um,” Porthos says, so Treville gets the barrister to remake the drink and takes it to his table, Porthos trailing after him. 

“What are you up to, these days?” Treville asks, once they’re sat, Porthos showing no signs of saying anything.

“It’s been a while, I’ve done a bit,” Porthos says, suddenly grinning. “Been back to uni to retrain, did an MA. I’m a teacher, now. I teach sixth form history.”

“That’s fantastic,” Treville says, smiling. “You always were interested in that. Always had those books open.”

“Yeah. You?”

“Still serving. Lieutenant Colonel now, just finished a two year posting,” Treville says. “I’m at a bit of a loose end, waiting for reassignment.”

“Really? You never got out? Congratulations on… what is it? Two promotions?”

“Yeah, I was captain back then?” Treville checks. Porthos nods, still smiling. “I made major quite quickly after that tour, then LtC for this last deployment.”

“You always were good,” Porthos says. 

“What is that you’re drinking? It looks about half sugar,” Treville asks, grimacing at it. Porthos grins. 

“Yep. It’s got two flavours, and cream, and chocolate on top. It’s fantastic. Want to try?”

“Good lord not even in the slightest,” Treville says, aghast, retreating behind his nice respectable double espresso. Which is empty now. “Do I want to know the flavours?”

“Vanilla, and caramel,” Porthos says, beaming. 

“You have a moustache,” Treville says, and Porthos’s face creases so Treville adds, “the cream.”

“Oh!” Porthos says, wiping it off on his sleeve. 

“You haven’t changed,” Treville says, with a sigh, passing over a napkin. It amuses Porthos immensely and he laughs for a solid three minutes before pulling himself together. Then he gestures at himself and starts laughing again. Treville smiles. “You always did have a great laugh.”

Treville smiles and goes to get himself a refill. He does not offer to get Porthos another monstrosity. He does get cake, though, which he offers to share when Porthos makes eyes at it. Treville is surprised by the sharp wash of heat that goes through him when Porthos sucks chocolate off the fork, humming to himself. Treville’s never been anything but firmly queer, so that’s not a surprise, but he had not been attracted to Porthos in the past. Here he is, though, sitting opposite Treville, shoulders wide, body language open and inviting, head tipped back to savour the cake. Treville watches, letting himself take Porthos in, take in his body, his face, the way he moves and sits and eats. 

“What?” Porthos asks, noticing. 

“Nothing,” Treville says. 

“Oh. You have freckles on your shoulder,” Porthos says. 

Treville blinks and looks down at his t-shirt. It’s an old one and the neck’s loose, showing his collarbone and top of his shoulder. He wears it as pyjamas, usually. Thursday is a lazy day. He looks back up at Porthos, and finds an intent expression there, Porthos watching him the way he just watched Porthos. That’s another surprise, but Treville goes with it, settling in to sip his coffee before smiling, making it warm and open. 

“It’s surprisingly nice to see you,” Treville says. “I didn’t expect to see you again, or for it to matter.”

“Charming,” Porthos says. He looks flattered though. 

“I’d like to catch up properly, maybe get to know you now you’re not a kid and one of my men,” Treville says. 

“Always did like you refering to us like that, bloody sexist arse,” Porthos mutters, face scrunching up before evening into a smile. 

“One of my soldiers,” Treville corrects, as he always used to when Porthos would throw things at him for saying ‘men’. That was the extent of their relationship, beyond professional lines- he’s slip into using male as neutral, and Porthos would throw a balled up pair of socks or something at him. “Do you still wear the same pair of socks for weeks on end?”

“No,” Porthos says, laughing. “Christ, I was a kid! All kids are anti sock change.”

“Nope.”

“Yeah!”

“You were a slob.”

“Army ironed most of that out of me,” Porthos says, shrugging. “Yeah, I’d like to catch up. Are you going to take me to dinner, be my sugar daddy?”

“Not on your life. You can pay for yourself,” Treville says. 

“I get paid good,” Porthos says, smugly. “Work for a private school, they pay really nicely. We used to do schools in problem areas, but it was a bit soul shattering, so we’re having a couple years’ break and doing secret research into how public schools get to being better.”

“We?” Treville asks. 

“Me and Aramis and Athos, and we’ve kinda picked up a puppy recently, d’Artagnan. My friends. They’re kind of my brothers, really. Good friends,” Porthos says, draining his coffee. “I have to go, though, so that story will have to wait. Give me your number?”

Treville scribbles it on a napkin, and then Porthos leaves with a breezy wave and a check of his watch. He curses and starts to run, which makes Treville laugh. He really hasn’t changed.


End file.
